


Phone Calls :: Rewired

by pretense



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2nd chapter is PWP, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-02
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretense/pseuds/pretense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the eve of his birthday but America isn't feeling very festive. Trouble is afoot. What's a hero to do? Call up reinforcement, of course!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Simple as that.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5186194/1/Phone_Calls).
> 
> Edited: 18 August 2017  
> Upgraded America with a smartphone and tweaked the shenanigans related thereto  
> Upgraded the flow and grammar as well C:

America throws himself on the sofa, sighing deeply as he extracts a cushion that’s propping up his elbow at an awkward angle. He puts it under his head and looks up at the dark ceiling, moonlight reflecting over his glasses. It’s late, he’s tired, and there’s an ache in his chest that just won’t be abated. Taking off Texas, America runs a hand down his face in an attempt to subdue his frustrations. He feels older already and it’s not even… _Ugh._

Why does it have to be like this Every. Damn. Year? He mentally shouts at the murky darkness but of course it doesn’t answer. (It would be hella scary if it did and Alfred is _not_ in the mood.) Putting Texas back on, America reaches for his phone, feeling though the pockets of his beloved bomber jacket to find it. The protective casing is a bit dented (not even military-grade protection can withstand America’s fists) but the phone itself is safe. He’s been practically glued to it for the past week -- and it is _not_ for gaming reasons, as a certain snobby _git_ would imply -- America has been busy planning and double-checking and making damn sure tomorrow would be a success. As it should be.

He got all the invitations sent out, the menu is taste-tested, all decorations are approved, and the custom-made fireworks have been delivered. Hell, even his suit for tomorrow has already been dry-cleaned, his shoes polished, and his necktie starched. There’s a checklist on top of his screen to prove it, too. America dismisses it and pulls up a different app, squinting against the bright screen as he presses Call.

Sticking the phone between his shoulder and ear, America lifts his foot to take off his shoes and socks. He has just dropped both pairs on the floor when the other line picks up.

“Japan! I don’t know what to do anymore!” he cries into the receiver. “My birthday’s tomorrow and he’s PMS-ing again!”

"Erm–"

"I know right!" America interrupts, knowing it’s going to be another tactful agreement. "I was being polite, too, when I reminded y’all of my party. See how I waited until the end of the today’s meeting to announce it? I was on my best behavior!!! And what did he do? Just walked right past me, that’s what! No ‘ _I’ll be there_ ’ or ‘ _I’m sorry I can’t make it_ ’ or even a goodbye! Fucking rude.”

"Well–"

"You're going to say I should get used to it? Come on, Japan. He _never_ attends my birthday parties unless the Queen herself tells him to! Even then, he’ll be sulky and un-fun for the whole event. It’s been two centuries! And a half! I think he still hates me after all…” America’s griping mellows to a whine. “Do you really think I have a chance with him?”

"Ame–"

"No, wait--” America is quick to notice the other's weary tone. ”--don't you go shrink-psychotherapist on me!" He sits up, careful not to drop his phone, gaze landing on the window that’s looking out to the garden; red roses remain in full bloom even under the shadow of night. "You _know_ that I like him more than I should and no matter what I do, I can't change that! I don't want to! But it's just damning that he still hates me after all these years! I don't know what else I’m supposed to do anymore!"

"Um–"

Alfred heaves a sigh. "It's practically incest, I know, _I know_. He brought me up, he gave me everything, and I'm probably the biggest bastard out there for breaking ties with him before. But you know what? More than the socio-political climate at that time, it was… personal. I didn't know if I could control myself anymore! We slept in the same bed, Japan! And I don't think he would've taken it nicely if I jumped him in the middle of the night…"

"That’s–"

"Oh, sorry, that was probably TMI, but I can't just…" He spares Japan the expletive by mashing up the syllables in an unintelligible but entirely frustrated-sounding gurgle. America slumps against the sofa, pushing his bangs out of his eyes with one hand and keeping his phone to his ear with the other. "I don't care that he won’t bother with presents; I just want England to _be_ there…” He goes quiet again, and surprisingly, Japan doesn’t say anything. They just… breathe together. Feeling drained and sleepy, America releases his last bout of complaints. "I’m mad at him for being a stodgy old coot and never moving on but I… I haven’t moved on, either. I’m still… _God_ , you must be getting tired of my ranting now. Sorry. I’ll stop. Anyway, you RSVP’d already, right, Japan?" America confirms, pushing his body off the couch. He bends to pick his socks and shoes off the floor, padding across the darkened living room in his barefeet. "Can you bring along Greece? I don't think he heard my announcement this afternoon; he was sleeping again…"

America toes in his house slippers, depositing his loafers on the shoe rack by the front door. He stops the foot of the staircase leading to the second floor, a small frown on his lips at the extended silence from the other end. This is usually the part where Japan would say: ' _I understand, America-san_ ' or something along those lines. The thick silence unnerves him. (He should’ve opened the hallway lights.) "Hey, Japan? You still there?"

A shuffling sound patches through, followed by a familiar voice. It has a forced calm laced into it… as well as a rather English accent.

“America.”

His insides suddenly turn cold. ‘Oh shit’ being the main thought coursing through his mind, eyes bugging wide and sliding towards the phone held against his ear... How could he not have noticed he was calling the wrong number? And of all the fucking possibilities, it turned out to be the worst. Shit… just total fucking shit.

"A-Uhm…Hey, E-England…" America greets most awkwardly, surprised that her even has a voice. The small hesitant laugh he tacks onto the end crumbles into a tense silence.

"Yes, hello." England replies, clipped and mildly infuriated. "I have been trying to tell you for the last five minutes that you called the wrong number."

"Ahaha… yeah." America can almost hear his brain wrecking itself. Fuck. He wants to end the call right now but that would most likely make England hate him even more. Is it possible for an anthropomorphic nation to die from embarrassment? he wonders. He can never face the older nation after this. Ever. “A-About what you heard…" America gulps most unpleasantly. God damn it, how can he explain himself now? "That was…" _Think, think, think…_ "… a prank call!" _Awesome! That could work!_ "Yeah, a prank all!" he gives a short laugh. "It was a prank call for Japan! You know me! Always such a joker!"

"I've already established that this call is for Japan." England’s voice is stiff as a board.

"Right! O-Of course you did!" Internally, America wishes for any veritable force of nature to end this nerve-wracking call. A hurricane could tear up his house, an earthquake could swallow him up, an alien invasion -- anything!

" _Well?_ " England demands after a long moment of silence from both ends.

"W-Well what?" America returns the question, seriously hoping that his nervousness won't show through in his voice… but that wish would be in vain. The hand holding the phone against his ear is already shaking. He could almost hear the protective casing crack.

"I'm not daft to believe that that was just a prank call, America," England states matter-of-factly. "I--” He clears his throat for a moment before continuing, this time speaking with something that almost sounded like hope. "I just want to confirm… if you meant what you've said."

"Um… which part?" Alfred hazards to ask in a small yet anticipative voice, his toes curling into themselves in worry.

He hears England grumbling from the other end before he replies. "Do you honestly want me to attend that blasted birthday party of yours?"

America lets out the greatest sigh of relief on hearing that. The tension in his body evaporates, a wide smile finally pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Of course I want you to be there, England!" America exclaims, loud as it is fond. "I've always wanted you to be. Always… I–I understand that you might still be mad at me but my celebration's just not complete when you're not around…" His smile turns bittersweet. "I really do want you to be there."

In the silence that follows, America prays the England wouldn’t say ‘No’ just to spite him. He waits it out. Because he has always been waiting for England (it has done something to his patience and general attention span, sure) but in this case, America is willing to take it to the next level if needed. When England finally speaks again, it’s with a softness that he hasn’t used for centuries. Not directed at America, at least.

"I… agree that I might've been acting unseemly all this time. There are… circumstances… regarding my yearly absence but I’m not going to make that excuse. It really is about time to… get over the past, I suppose."

“So… you’ll come to my party?”

“I will.”

"R-Really?" America can’t believe it.

"Yes, really.”

"Awesome! Thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! _Thank you, England!_ "

"Oh pipe down, would you? It’s bloody late,” England grouses.

"Sorry!" America squeaks, unapologetically gleeful. "But, really, England, thank you."

"Yes, now, I daresay it's about time for sleep. Today’s conference was quite exhaustive. And you’re supposed to be up early tomorrow.”

"I’ll be fine, don’t worry." America is a hundred percent sure he’ll be more than fine. Nothing could ever dampen his mood now. "Good night, England!"

"Sweet dreams, America."

"Oh, and one last thing!"

"Hn?”

"You were right. That was no prank call." America feels his face heat up, bracing himself to spit out the rest. "I–I really meant what I've said, England. All of it. So, um, yeah, see you tomorrow!"

With that, America ends the call and proceeds to skip up the his way up the stairs, looking forward to a good night's rest.

* * *

In a brightly lit hotel room, not far from America’s residence, green-eyed England blushes a furious red. He carefully places the foreign phone on top of the bedside table, hoping that no other call patches through. He makes a mental note to give it back to Japan soon as he sees him tomorrow. So much for being a gentleman. Next time, he promises he’d scout the entire building to find the owner and return what had initially seemed to be a lost item soon as he can. He has a gut feeling that the innocuous device has been deliberately left behind for him to find.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of PWP because i was stressed af last week  
> ...its twice the length of the original ahaha...fuck.

The ballroom is packed with important personages (human and Nation alike) but England is on a mission. He had to buy a suit at the last minute in order to be presentable but it’s a small cost to pay for everything that has been revealed to him last night. His body is feeling weak given the occasion, but the accompanying headache is bearable.

He hears China before he even sees him, boasting about a limited time offer on his living with pandas program. There’s a fair crowd around the other Nation and -- England is surprised to see -- a pair of live pandas.

Why on earth would America allow this here? England makes a mental note to grill him later about it.

On the flip side, he does find the man he is looking for. Right in front of the crowd, Japan has his phone out and is recording the panda cubs in play. The crowd coos collectively as one panda tumbles in pursuit of an inflated ball.

Japan’s camera tracks the movement until they catch a set of polished shoes tapping impatiently right across him. Looking up from the screen, he sees England with a hand raised to catch his attention. He didn’t expect to see him here.

England signals towards the side, clearly calling him over, and Japan nods, excusing himself as he takes his leave.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

A slim silver phone is extended to him. Japan scrutinizes the item, then he raises his eyes towards England, keen.

England meets him head on, aware that he’s being read but his pride keeps him from yielding. “I found this after the conference yesterday.”

Japan takes the phone and unlocks the screen. “It does appear to be mine,” he finally says. “Thank you for returning it, England _ -san _ .”

Thick brows furrow slightly. Is that it? He doesn’t expect Japan to straight out admit that he planned for England to find but the timing (and all circumstances surrounding it all) is a little too on the nose. Japan is an expert strategist, after all. England decides it’s up to him to push. “Were you expecting a call last night?”

“A call?”

“Yes.” England finds his expression to be a perfect mask of polite cluelessness. Damn him. He’s going to make England spill everything.

“This is my personal mobile,” Japan answers in his usual evasive way. “I apologize if it has caused you any trouble.”

Oh it was no trouble at all, hearing America confess his hidden desires. The trouble is that he apparently  _ blabs _ to other Nations about it. ...Not that England isn’t guilty of the exact same thing -- he has unfailingly spent every month of July in recent memory drinking himself silly with Prussia and France, and his brothers, too. It certainly puts a different perspective on things, though, realizing that  _ everyone else _ had known all along what was happening and was just waiting for the other shoe to fall. England hazards they have a betting pool about it, too. Those bastards.

“It’s fine,” England finally says. “Just be more careful with it next time.”

Japan pockets his phone amiably. “I will.” His gaze trails off towards something just past England’s shoulder and his smile widens.

Loud strides approach them, thundering like a herd of wild buffalos. “There you are! Japan, did you -- oh.” As quickly as it comes it stops and England finds America himself beside them.

He looks handsome in a navy suit and charcoal gray  waistcoat, clean-shaven with his hair coiffed back. America is radiant, save for his expression that’s more befitting of an oncoming storm. Blue eyes jump from Japan to England and the foot of space between them.

“Happy birthday, America _ -san _ .” Japan offers a respectful bow, breaking the sudden tension.

“Thanks, man,” America grins, clearly recalibrating. Then he sets his gaze on England, pausing for an inhale as he takes in his appearance. “England… you made it.”

“I did promise,” England replies. “And even though you said that you didn’t require a present--” he pulls out a slim envelope from his suit pocket “--I want you to have this.”

America actually blushes at the allusion. It confirms that England remembers everything he had said last night. He takes the envelope with slightly trembling hands. “I… Ah, thank you.” His glasses gleam as he admires the calligraphic render of his name in dark green ink, feeling the quality stock of stationery; he tucks it into his breast pocket with reverence. “I’ll read it later, okay? Dinner is about to start and I’ve reserved a couple of seats. If you would…” Slight movement from his periphery reminds him that there are other people in this ballroom. “Ah, Japan, you can come, too. I guess.”

“Thank you, but I have already made arrangements with China _ -san _ . If you would excuse me,” he bows again. “I’ll see you both later.”

“O-Oh. Okay. See ya!”

“Later!”

Once Japan has disappeared into the crowd, England feels the palpable tension that has slipped its way around him. Them, rather. He amends as he looks up at the Nation beside him. America looks marginally less happy.

“What is it?”

A slight tilt of his head makes Texas catch light, hiding America’s eyes. “I didn’t call the wrong phone last night.”

England raises his chin, not about to back down when faced with an accusation. “No, you didn’t,” he says levelly.

America takes a sharp breath, his next words coming low. “Why did you have Japan’s phone?”

Silence stretches as England holds his tongue, eyes dagger sharp as they regard the other Nation.  _ This poor, naive boy. _ America proves less intimidating when England steps into his space and his whole body shifts back on reflex. One eye is uncovered, a stormy blue glare directed right at him. “I found it,” England reveals with a flighty timbre. “Left behind at the meeting room yesterday.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. And I was returning it to him before you came along.”

America regards him for a second, then he stands his full height and looks over everyone’s heads. Tracking Japan, England would wager; this territorial streak of America’s isn’t new to him but he does find it amusing knowing what he does now. Apparently satisfied with his findings, America is all smiles when he turns to England once again. “That’s good, then! I, the hero, would never forgive you for taking someone else’s things!” 

England smiles wryly at this. “Yes, yes. Now, weren’t we headed to dinner?” To his surprise, America holds out his arm.

“Right this way, sir.”

 

They are inseparable for the rest of the night, prompting more than a few nations to make jabs at the pair. France in particular acted especially leery about it but England is not about to be baited into a catfight when he’s still feeling half-nauseous. Besides, America works as a great buffer, willfully drawing everyone’s attention to himself since he is the man of the hour.

“How are you doing, England?” Canada’s soft voice breaks through the buzz, in one of the few moments England finds himself alone.

“Surprisingly well, as a matter of fact,” England admits, putting down his cup. He has managed to get tea from the servers and is enjoying the calm away from where America is matching the animated chatter of the Mediterranean Nations.

“America didn’t force you to come here, did he?” Canada worries. “Because he’s been dogging you all evening like you’re about to make a break for it any second.”

England laughs at the too accurate description, making Canada shift closer and a few nearby Nations to turn and look. “He asked nicely enough,” he assures his old charge. “Must be why I indulged him this time.”

“And it looks like he’s being extra considerate, too.” Canada nods at the teapot and cups on the table. “He almost never serves tea during his birthday.”

“It’s good tea, would you like some?”

 

Hong Kong finds his way to their table, lured by the smell of tea and his own curiosity at England’s presence. With him comes Macau, China, South Korea, and Japan. Australia drops into the empty seat next to England before the hour is over, holding an ice pack to his temple. New Zealand is right beside him saying ‘I told you to be careful’ whilst stirring his own tea with a little more force than necessary. India passes by, checking in on England (and his infamous headache this time of the year) but declining the offer to drink with him. The same happens with Botswana, Kenya, and Lesotho. Jamaica and Grenada, too. A server has just delivered their third pot of tea when America himself finally makes his way around.

“Okay…  _ What _ is going on here?” he eyes every Nation at the table, finally resting on England who’s at the center. “Who told you to have a reunion with your former colonies at  _ my _ birthday party?”

“I resent that statement,  _ aru _ ,” China pipes up from the back. Beside him, Japan stuffs his mouth with sweet mochi to avoid speaking, glancing between America and China.

“Yeah,” Hong Kong leans forward in his seat, defensive. “Also, you can’t, like, sit with us, bro.”

“Now, now,” Canada says, pacifying. “We’re just here for the tea, honestly.” Murmurs of agreement follow his statement, the collective subsequently taking a sip of their drinks.

“Whaaat? But I’ve got free-flowing soda!” America pouts. “And beer!”

“Your beer’s lou- _ smhpsghk _ !” Australia doesn’t finish due to the hand Fiji clamps over his mouth.

“He’ll be paying for that statue he broke,” England tells America. “By no later than the end of this week.” The second part he directs to Australia who huffs but doesn’t disagree. New Zealand replaces the ice pack on his temple.

“Uh… okay?” America  looks round the table again -- half of them with a cup of tea, and a little less than that number sporting the distinctive bushy brows. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I came here to tell you guys the fireworks show will be starting in fifteen minutes. So, you know, get up and find a good seat.”

Nobody moves.

... Not that America notices since he’s staring expectantly at England.

Canada looks between the two Nations, heaving a deep breath before getting on his feet. “Alright, you heard the guy. Fireworks at the Grand Lawn. Everybody up! Up!”

That gets everyone moving, chairs scraping against the floor as bodies move out. South Korea starts blabbing about the beauty of the fireworks at his local festivals, to which China nods tiredly, having heard it all before. England finishes one last drink before taking to his feet.

“Come with me.” America whispers, head bowed in a way that leaves his face in shadow.  He meets the inquiring gaze with a smile, taking England’s hand and squeezing. Wordlessly,  England nods, and America leads him towards the opposite end of the hall.

Canada turns back just in time to catch them disappearing through the door, hand in hand.

 

“It’s soundproof,” America tells him, right after the lock clicks shut.

The room is dark but England can make out a long boardroom table at the center, surrounded by plush swivel chairs. Behind the head of the table is a wide TV screen showing the cloudless night sky. A small icon in the corner indicates that the live feed is on mute. England walks up to it, the lone source of light in the room.

“France said you hated firecrackers.” America’s voice comes up from right behind him but England doesn’t flinch. “I find them cheerful, they fill the black night with color. I didn’t understand why you’d hate them, and if that was reason enough for you to never attend my birthdays… Aside from your grudge against me, of course.”

England doesn’t deny the accusation for it rings true. Partly, at least. In the beginning. On screen the first firework sprays sparkling silver across the sky, wide and dazzling. England follows a second one with his eyes, craning his neck upwards. America’s breath ghosts on his nape, his nose tucked behind England’s ear.

“Then I realized,” America continues, supporting England’s weight the Nation leans back against him. “If you take away the visuals… Fireworks sound just like gunshots.”

A series of red explosions brighten the screen. A field of red spider lilies.

“Cannons.”

Streaks of white dance their way across the dark canvas.

“Bombs.”

From two far-off points come golden explosions that branch off into smaller fireworks, raining glitter.

“But if you mute the sounds... “

England sucks in a breath when strong hands bracket his waist.

“They’re beautiful, right?”

“They are.” The glare of the TV hurts his eyes but England isn’t about to complain about it. Neither of them speak for the next couple of minutes, content to enjoy the view, the company. Finally, slowly, England shifts in position, placing his hands over America’s. “You’ve been especially accommodating tonight. Reserved seats, specially brewed tea, and even this.” Fingertips tease over the bulging knuckles, dipping daintily into the valleys between thick digits. “What’s your ploy, America?”

“Nothing much,” America replies, watching over England’s shoulder. “Just making sure that you stay now that I’ve got you here.”

England chuckles. “Got me, have you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re too nervous,” he notes, feeling the tremors when America squeezes his waist.

“You heard my confession before I was ready.” A wry grin worms its way to his lips. “I was supposed to trim it down to the basics, y’know. Make it sound cool and stuff.”

“Well,  _ I  _ found your honesty charming.”

“’S not the same.” America is pouting when England turns to face him, he tries not to shiver at the touch of deft hands straightening his tie and collar. ...At least, that’s what he thought England was up to until he feels his tie slipping from around his neck. “Um. What are you doing?” With eyes adjusted to the dark, he sees a bushy brow arch up.

“You’ve made your intentions rather clear last night, I would say.” England is backlit by the huge TV, green eyes gaining an eerie glow as he stares up at America. “I am simply following through.”

“What --  _ here?! _ ” 

A smirk is England’s only reply. Wrapping the ends of America’s tie around his fingers, he pulls the taller Nation down to his level, planting a kiss just a little off his mouth. The room’s silence amplifies the gasp and subsequent moan that falls from America’s lips. He angles his face to get better access, smiling when America eagerly presses even closer.

The edge of the table is digging into his ass. America twists his hips to get away from it, inadvertently thrusting up against England who takes it as an invitation. Next thing he knows, England has a leg between his thighs, dress pants heating up with the friction of their movements. America parks his ass more securely on the table’s ledge, pulling England even closer with both hands on his pert bottom.

It's dirty-wet and open-mouthed, England wonders where America learnt to kiss in such a way because he certainly didn't teach him  _ this _ . Pulling back to breathe, he takes a moment to appreciate how America’s blush appears luminescent in the dark. “I hope this isn't a little too fast for you,” England says conversationally, unbuttoning America’s suit and the shirt beneath. They look like they're about to pop off, in any case, with the way America’s chest is heaving. “Alright, luv?” Big hands squeeze his ass and England feels his cock throb.

“I’m… I just… Oh my God…” America is beyond embarrassed but his arousal overpowers all other emotion. England kisses him sweetly and his body burns as if set aflame. “ _ England-- _ !”

“Yes, America?”

“I… How do you…”  _ Fuck _ . He’s usually way more suave than this. Then again, it's not every day the man you’ve been pining for over three centuries finally reciprocates your feelings. “You… want to top?”

His fingers still on the last button. Damn it all, this boy just doesn't stop being endearing, does he? England doesn't really have a preference, he just wants to make America cum by his own hands… or cock… or ass. “It's your birthday, what do  _ you _ want?”

America gasps as his shirt is thrown open. England’s hands reacquainting with his body -- so much bigger, fuller now than when he’d last touched him -- their intentions carnal like they had never been before. “I want to top.”

“Of course,” England agrees smoothly, ducking to place kisses along America’s jaw. “Anything you wish,” he whispers once he reaches the ear. America shivers under him and England licks a stripe down his throat, unable to resist.

“Kiss me,” America demands, hitching up the back of England’s suit so he could untuck his shirttails. Soon he’s got his hands under the brand new shirt, a new leverage by which he holds England closer to him.

Their lips meet hot, ravenous and reverent in the same breath. England feels himself slide up, levied by America’s incredible strength, brought against the undeniable hardness in the other Nation’s pants. It's all because of him. All  _ for _ him. England finds there's a better use for his mouth at this point.

America chases England’s mouth when the latter breaks away, leaving him wanting. “England… England…” He runs his hands down the Brit’s torso, mapping every indent of his ribs, his abdominal muscles.

“’S alright, luv, just follow me.”

America drops onto a swivel chair with England looming before him. The fireworks show has just about reached its climax -- the TV is filled with glittery explosions of every color -- but for once America doesn't care to see the grand finale. England puts a hand on each of his thighs, his smirk knowing of the bulge that's straining between them as he pushes him (chair and all) back against the table. There's a clatter as something falls off the other end but, again, America is much too preoccupied to care.

“Can't have you spinning around while I go down on you, yes?” England posits his question like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Heart in his throat, America whimpers as the hands on him slide up, squeezing at his waist before going higher. He’s pretty sure England chuckled at the bit of stomach he’s got spilling out the top of his pants. The glint in his eyes show how much he’s enjoying this -- watching America squirm, helpless in his arousal -- and America sorts of hates it. He grabs the lapels of England’s suit jacket as soon as he’s close enough, driving his tongue inside when the latter gasps at the sudden kiss.

The swivel chair squeaks as England puts his weight on it, balancing himself with a knee on the seat, strategically placed right in front of America’s crotch. America’s grip is going to tear his suit and he’s just about to tell him off when America kisses him intensely; his mouth immediately fills with tongue soon after. By god is he good at this. England forgets where he was heading, devoured by this new side America he only ever met in wet dreams. Unlike his dreams, however, this one stays even after he opens his eyes. America's kisses have slowed, ragged breaths now come in between them as he holds England close, cupping that flushed face gently. England has no idea when his hands got there, or how he’d ended up practically sitting on his lap. A metallic creak of protest comes from beneath them.

“England…” America kisses him soft, his voice gone hoarse. “This isn't… isn't just for tonight.” Another feather-light touch. “Right?”

Big blue eyes stare up at him behind skewed glasses. England fixes them, brushing aside the blond bangs. “You ask that as if I could stand losing you a second time.” He plants his own kiss, sealing in the gasp that America lets out at his words. Thumbs brush over his cheeks, tender, slowly does America ease his hold. “Now let me continue.”

“Okay.”

 

His cock is plenty slick when England finally uncovers it, thick and swollen. America gasps at every little touch, filling the darkened room with lewd noises; it's a good thing he had the (lucky) foresight to choose a soundproof room. England works it deftly with one hand, smirking when he finds America watching him. He had always thought America handsome when dressed to the nines but he now finds a new appreciation for the man without the suit. America looks properly debauched with his entire front exposed, curves and edges highlighted by the TV which could have been static for all they cared.

England pumps his cock leisurely, coating it evenly with precum, weighing the quickly-hardening length. America grips the seat’s armrests, nearly breaking it when England gives a tentative lick,  teasing the foreskin off the tip. 

“ _ Ahh, England… _ ”

“Mmmm.”

He barely feels England’s other hand on his thigh, soothing the tremors running through it. All he sees is England on his knees, between his legs, head bobbing over his cock, driving him wild with his expertise. Slurping sounds echo through the darkness, loud and lewd and America feels the heat in his belly coil tightly, pulling up his balls as saliva drips over them. Then England’s tongue is there, licking the entirety of his shaft and prodding at the juncture to his sac. His cock smears precum on England’s cheek as the man ducks to mouth at his balls, leaving them wet with his thorough attention.

England steadies America’s cock with one hand as he resurfaces, squeezing the swollen length and licking up the slick that coats his fingers. His own erection is painfully hard, stifled beneath fine fabric, but he willfully keeps his hands away. Instead, the hand not on America’s dick scales his sides, finding delight at how much the Nation is sweating out, filling his nose with such a heady smell. It turns him on even more but England resists the urge to touch his dick; denying himself is a pleasure all on it’s own. The head of America’s cock hits the back of his throat, the veined shaft rubbing the inner walls of his cheeks, its taste embedding onto his tongue.

“W-Wait a sec -- wait!”

England turns his eyes towards America, mouth still full of cock.

America forgets to speak for a moment, taking in the sight. England gives a particularly thorough suck to get them back on track. America whines, grabbing England’s face with both hands to keep him from swallowing any more of his dick. “I said wait!” He blushes when England’s responding hum sends tremors around his member. “This isn't fair!” England raises a brow at him and it makes America feels rather foolish about what he’s about to say next. “I-I want to make you feel good, too.”

England lets himself be pulled off, stunned when America’s thumb brushes over his lips. He wouldn't have minded if America just straight up fucked his mouth, he thinks mildly, nipping at the digit.

“Hey!” America protests but he’s instantly silenced when England stars sucking on it. “Oh  _ shit-- _ ” The pad of his thumb rubs over the flat of England’s tongue, gasping when silk-soft cheeks hollow around him. He maps his teeth, too, the rest of his fingers curling under England’s jaw when the latter bites him lightly. “Alright, up you go!”

Releasing his thumb, England instantly misses having his mouth occupied. He gets up on his feet as requested, feeling a little wobbly but America is quick to steady him. His cock throbs, begging for attention but England only squeezes his legs tighter. “You're making me feel very good, America,” he admits, noting the scratchy quality of his own voice. He’s got both hands on the swivel chair’s armrests, leaning into America’s space with his big, beautiful dick right under his nose. “We didn't have to stop.”

“We have a problem.” America tries to maintain a serious expression but it's hard when he’s about to swoon at any given moment. He is also  _ thisclose  _ to spazzing when England pointedly looks down at his erection and says,

“I bet I could fix  _ that.” _

_ “That's not it! _ ” America cries, blushing a furious shade of red. “You're still clothed!”

“Oh.” Frowning, England backs up a little. “I’ll just take these off, then.”

“No!” America protests, gripping England tightly by shoulders.

Greet eyes narrow at him. “Do you want  me naked or not?”

A frustrated growl answers, “I-I want to do it.”

What America wants, America gets. England is guilty of spoiling his former colony and he pays for it now when America pulls him onto his lap. Well, partially, at least. The seat doesn't have enough space for two and he doesn't think it can support both their weights either. England moves his hands so they don't get in the way, resting them atop the backrest as America undoes every button from his collar to his pants. He moans, exposed to cool air that relieves the heat under his skin. Then America’s mouth and hands rove all over him -- his neck, his chest, his ass. America is marking a hickey just under his collarbone when his cock springs free, damp briefs pulled down the middle of his thighs.

“Geez, England,” America mutters, wrapping his hand around England's cock to find it stiff and unyielding. “You're already this hard and you didn't tell me.”

“I'm fine,” England says, shivering.

“Do you have lube?” America asks, thumbing at the slit of England's cock.

“ _Ahhn…_ You don't?”

“I wasn't exactly planning on getting laid, you know.” America punctuates his retort squeezing England’s ass. “You, on the other hand, seem awfully prepared.”

He bucks into the circle of America's hand with a low groan. It closes in on him, textured roughly. “What if I am?” he challenges, plucking a sachet of lube hidden behind the handkerchief on his breastpocket.

“Do you have condoms in there, too?”

“If you think we'll need it.”

The cheeky grin on America's face (and the hand he's got wrapped around his cock) falls at his reply. 

“ _ Fuck… _ really?”

England smiles, smoothing the crease between America's brows before threading his fingers through his sweat-matted hair. “I just want your cock in me, luv. Don't really care how you make it work.”

America sucks in a breath. “O-Okay, um, no condoms.”

England hums.

“So, er…” America shifts in his seat. England has one knee folded beside his leg, the other hangs freely over the edge. It's too cramped to have England straddle him here. He tries to turn, looking for a viable option but the chair doesn't move, blocked by the --“Table!” He cries in a moment of inspiration. “Get on the table!”

“I thought you'd never ask.” England moves back, letting his pants and underwear fall to the floor and stepping out of them to make it easier. He pulls off his shirt and suit jacket in one go, surprised when America readily takes them, folding the items carefully on the back of the chair they had just vacated. America is already in a similar state of undress, his cock pointed directly at him. England licks his lips.

America wills the nerves away, helping England onto the table, inhaling sharply when their dicks touch. England wraps lean limbs around him, kissing along his jaw then nibbling on his ear.

“Don't hold back,” he whispers.  _ Orders _ , more like, but America hears the hidden plea.

Putting his hands on England’s hips, America grinds their cocks together. “You want my dick so bad?”

“ _ Oh,  _ yes,” England gasps when America repeats the motion.”Yes.”

“Spread your legs.” England does so without hesitation and America kisses him sweetly. He says “Lube” and England hands him the packet, looking up all coy beneath short lashes. “I'm laying you down, okay?” America guides him with a hand under his head to cushion the fall.

America is a welcome weight on top of him, their heated bodies pressed from chest to groin. It makes England arch up, mewling, cock and balls rubbing against America’s.

It takes great effort for America to pull away when England is practically asking to be fucked without any prep, rutting against him like that. He tears off a corner of the sachet, pouring a dollop on his palm and warming it up quickly; his coated fingers smell of vanilla. Setting the lube aside, America puts a hand on England’s knee, opening his legs wider.

“Hurry,” England pants, cock lying horizontally on his heaving body, leaking.

America bends, kissing the inside of his thigh as the tip of his middle finger rubs at the puckered entrance. England whines some more but America sticks to his task without rushing, calming him with reverent kisses as his finger prods and teases. England is more than ready for him. This becomes apparent when he slips right up to the second knuckle upon breaching. He twists his finger, sinking deeper, making England gasp and shudder. It only gets hotter, tighter, when he slips a second finger in, stretching and scissoring. He has run out of space on England’s thigh to leave hickeys. At least, he assumes so since he’s been marking them on a steady path and he’s now at the junction of his leg and groin.

Three thick fingers are working him open and he can't help his legs from shaking. When America crooks his fingers England releases a choked cry, his ass raising automatically, wanting more.

“You okay?” America’s face is squashed against England’s hip where he'd been gradzng his teeth over the jutted bone. It hurt when England suddenly bucked up like that.

“Would have been better if that was your cock in me,” England wheezes.

“You know I can't rush this,” America protests. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I'm already so hard it  _ hurts _ .” England sniffs, sounding a little tearful and America’s first thought is to just give it to him. “Make me cum, America.”

He normally hates it when England gets all bossy like that. Unreasonable and impossible to convince otherwise. It's even worse now because England is naked. He's naked and taking America's digits like a champ. England clenches his ass just so and all logic flies out the window. All he can think of is how good it will feel around his cock. “Alright, alright, I get it!” America cries, pulling his fingers out. It gets England mewling, shivering at the loss.

“Do you want me to move?” he asks, breathy and seductive. “On my… ah, stomach, perhaps?”

“J-Just stay as you are,” America tells him, squeezing out the remaining lube with shaky hands

“Alright.”

“Are you sure we don't need condoms?”

“Very sure.”

America coats his cock liberally, still achingly hard despite being neglected for some time. He lines himself up with England’s ass, wet tip nudging the loosened entrance. “Ready?”

“Yes, luv, now come.”

Large hands grip his waist, steadying him as America pushes in. England’s body relaxes, accepting his girth easily. America rocks back and then plunges deeper, making him gasp, sounding out his desires like a siren.

It's strangely liberating, giving in. America burns up with desire, buried balls deep in England now, moving on sheer instinct to satisfy his most carnal cravings. England makes quite a sight enveloped by velvet shadows, the very edges of him cast with blue light from the TV. His body ripples with ecstasy, meeting every thrust that America gives. Faster, harder, and more, always more. Luminescent eyes arrest him, folding his spine until England has him in his clutches.

He secures his legs around the solid waist, urging America even closer. They moan and they kiss, wrapped around each other so thoroughly in a connection that transcends their physical bodies. England feels the pressure building, winding him tight around America's cock. Every drag strikes a fiery trail through his spine, alighting every nerve, until he is consumed.

Consummated.

* * *

America wakes, cocooned in wrinkled blankets, morning wood pressing against his thigh.

The curtains are drawn shut, leaving him to guess the time. Sweat condenses where his skin is exposed, the heat of arousal contrasting with the cool air.

He sits up, bleary-eyed, and quickly puts on his glasses.

That was some dream.

America fixes himself in his boxers, hunger overpowering his other needs. He heads out, soft slippers padding heavily down to the kitchens. He stops when he smells something burning, then his steps come faster, taking the stairs two at a time until he's at the source.

The table is set for two. There's a plate of questionable sunny side up eggs and another of thoroughly toasted toast. America finds the culprit at the stove, wearing an old tshirt and odd-fitting boxers that fail to hide the hickeys on his thighs. Said culprit is muttering angrily, elbows jutted out as he appears to be fighting with the appliance.

“Um…” America rubs his eyes but the mirage doesn't disappear. It turns towards him, holding a frying pan with badly burnt strips of what used to be bacon sizzling.

England's thick brows are furrowed but they arch in delight as his expression brightens, seeing America at the doorway. “Good morning!” he greets, as if this was the norm and not some fantasy America could swear he dreamed up. (England is even wearing a Kiss The Cook apron for goodness’ sake!)

America’s mouth drops open, wide eyes taking in England’s very real presence in his kitchen. He’s unusually cheerful for someone who looks like he’s been ravaged with all those bitemarks and reddened patches on his skin; England seems rather proud of them, for that matter. Then America remembers he put them there. With his own mouth and hands and body. He remembers England in all his naked glory, moaning his name as they fucked, fireworks going off in the background.

“And good morning to you down there, too!”

“Wha --  _ England!! _ ” His face flushes hotly as he shields his hard-on from view, both hands cupping the tented front of his boxers.

England's smirk is teasing. “Can it wait until after breakfast? It's improper to have dessert before a meal, you know.”

“Hey, fuck you,” America snaps, more embarrassed than ever.

“I said after breakfast,” England replies easily, turning back to the stove. “Now, sit down.” He turns off the appliance, scraping the bacon onto a plate and delivering it to the table.

America stands right beside it with his arms crossed.

England regards him with a pointed look. “Yes, America?”

“You should've waited for me to wake up,” America whines, genuine hurt laced in every word. “I thought it was all just a dream.” A gentle touch lands on his cheek.

“A dream come true, won’t you say?”

Of course, right after that is when America’s stomach decides to let out an earth-shattering rumble.

England blinks, then he laughs quietly. “Right then, breakfast, it is.” Before he could take back his hand, however, America's bigger one covers it.

America holds his hand still, ducking a shy kiss onto his palm. “Thanks, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cue [this song](https://a.tumblr.com/tumblr_owds53M2pY1qh0jouo1.mp3) as the scene fades out  
> (it's Ai Kotoba from Exit Tunes Presents ACTORS 4~)  
> bec im morally obligated to end things fluffily  
> even if this is a self-indulgent PWP chapter


End file.
